Scan barcode
ophelia_impersonator's review against another edition
3.5
poate fi destul de obositoare, in special prima parte cu copilaria ei (este importanta recunosc dar clar repetitiva) , si inteleg complet de ce oamenii o urasc- chiar este self-absorbed si egoista uneori, dar este o persoana reala si mi se pare ceva destul de comun pentru oamenii care ajung in stadiul asta de alienare sa ignore nevoile celor din jur din disperarea de a si le indeplini pe ale lor, nu e de iertat, dar e o parte reala din experienta ei si o inteleg si pot empatiza cu ea.
ce ma bucur este ca dintre toate cartile pe care le citesc cu afectiuni mentale chiar nu romantizeaza lucrurile, vorbeste des despre cat isi doreste sa se refaca, sa se opreasca din a fi problematica si ajunge cu medicatia potrivita (ghiciti care!) sa isi revina!!
“ I discovered, through the love Rafe gave me, that affection as medicine is highly overrated, that a person who is as sick with depression as I most certainly was cannot possibly be rescued through the power of anyone’s love.” !!!!
“And how many times have you seen me like this? How many times have you found me bawling on the floor somewhere? How many times have you found me digging a grapefruit knife into my wrist, screaming that I want to die?
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to say: Too often.”
o fi acum prozacul considerat “a pill for crybabies” dar ei i-a salvat viata deci
ce ma bucur este ca dintre toate cartile pe care le citesc cu afectiuni mentale chiar nu romantizeaza lucrurile, vorbeste des despre cat isi doreste sa se refaca, sa se opreasca din a fi problematica si ajunge cu medicatia potrivita (ghiciti care!) sa isi revina!!
“ I discovered, through the love Rafe gave me, that affection as medicine is highly overrated, that a person who is as sick with depression as I most certainly was cannot possibly be rescued through the power of anyone’s love.” !!!!
“And how many times have you seen me like this? How many times have you found me bawling on the floor somewhere? How many times have you found me digging a grapefruit knife into my wrist, screaming that I want to die?
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to say: Too often.”
o fi acum prozacul considerat “a pill for crybabies” dar ei i-a salvat viata deci
sourbutchkid's review against another edition
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
slow-paced
3.0
Feels messed up saying I liked the movie more considering this is a memoir… but alas.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Self harm and Suicide attempt
_anamarija_'s review against another edition
3.0
“We try, we struggle, all the time to find words to express our love. The quality, the quantity, certain that no two people have experienced it before in the history of creation. Perhaps Catherine and Heathcliff, perhaps Romeo and Juliet, maybe Tristan and Isolde, maybe Hero and Leander, but these are just characters, make-believe. We have known each other forever, since before conception even. We remember playing together in a playpen, crossing paths at FAO Schwarz. We remember meeting in front of the Holy Temple in the days before Christ, we remember greeting each other at the Forum, at the Parthenon, on passing ships as Christopher Columbus sailed to America. We have survived pogrom together, we have died in Dachau together, we have been lynched by the Ku Klux Klan together. There has been cancer, polio, the bubonic plague, consumption, morphine addiction. We have had children together, we have been children together, we were in the womb together. Our history is so deep and wide and long, we have known each other a million years. And we don't know how to express this kind of love, this kind of feeling. I get paralyzed sometimes. One day, we are in the shower and I want to say to him, I could be submerged in sixty feet of water right now, never drowning, never even fearing drowning, knowing I would always be safe with you here, knowing that it would be ok to die as long as you are here. I want to say this but don't.”
italya's review against another edition
4.0
took me so long bc it was so depressing and too relatable
alefloresm's review against another edition
4.0
Initially reading the book I was mesmerized by her sharp and incredibly sardonic, angsty writing style, as well as her alliance with counter cultural ideals. (her being a rock n roll music journalist in the 90s). Just like the film it is cathartic as it is self indulgent.
After sometime around the halfway mark of the book, I couldn't help but be slightly annoyed by the indulgent self mythologizing of her disorder. I accept that self mythologizing is a key aspect of memoirs, but sometimes I couldn't wait to finish reading the book, assuming she got better, I couldn't wait to finally finish the book as to quell her privileged despair. Besides all this, it was still an entertaining read given that I myself have had harmful-to-those-around-me- swallowing depressive episodes, that if I had Wurtzels writing talent, I would have been just as self indulgent in terms of writing all these calls to allusions and expressions of describing depression. Depression is ugly, and Wurtzel does not shy away from writing her experience in a way that is so ostentatiously "ugly" that it makes you step back and consider how your own handling of depression, as well as being a depressive burden can be seriously obnoxious to others given the burden that is having to undergo reading Wurtzel's personal account. Wurtzel is privileged enough to have attended Harvard, has always had stable housing, (and affording both of these without any full time job) remarkably always having good friends as an accessible shoulder to cry on, and last of my criticisms- the opportunity to travel around not only the U.S, but to Europe. These made for petty annoyances that I had to tell myself before I continued to read the book to try and abstain from judging or feeling like I belonged on some moral high horse. Ironically Wurtzel describes the idea of feeling like she had to prove her depression as if she were the "sickest of them all", which reflects the alienating sensation that is depression, when it becomes so inextricably your identity and you become plunged in a cycle of "Im sick and I cant control it but ill try and chase after a unknown cure which in turn this chase will set out to destroy me"/ "what nourishes me also destroys me".
This book makes me want to contemplate my own perceptions and bias's regarding the nature of the depressed. Some petty annoyances turn into sympathy, on the basis of empathizing that no matter how good I think Wurtzel has it, depression is a destructive mental paradigm that tunnel visions you to only focus on the negative and drown in the banal. I realize everyone and especially those who have felt depressed obsess over excusing and finding root causes of their depression, plunging them in a spiral of overthinking of what ifs and whys, and desperately wishing they could wake up as somebody else to avoid further complicating yourself. Depression is shameful, and it makes you guilty as you start to contemplate the objective good in your life, even if you know you have it good, it doesn't mean you'll start reacting according to it, it wont cure you, because depression is an illness, a sickness of perception and the numbing of interest.
I appreciate that this novel wasn't an attempt or received as aestheticized depression, considering the popularity of My Year of Rest and Relaxation, where I think the main character had few redeeming qualities as the book read as perversely privileged (even if the point of that book was to illustrate an unsavory character, the way it was received and aestheticized online had turned the main character into a icon for depressed wealthy white women, why do we always put their stories first? the glamorous idealization of a beautiful thin sad girl, crying her expensive makeup off as she swallows a handful of pills).
Prozac Nation has its great moments of wit, social and cultural commentary (honestly my favorite parts), poetic devices as to describe the pain and repulse that is depression, and references to great musicians who's careers are also to express feelings of anguish. The book is a worthwhile read, at moments introspective and what I feel would be most valuable to potential readers is that it is relatable in the way of unapologetically expressing a feverish disarray of a mental sickness. if you are into reading "irritating emotional exhibitionism" you will not regret reading this book.
After sometime around the halfway mark of the book, I couldn't help but be slightly annoyed by the indulgent self mythologizing of her disorder. I accept that self mythologizing is a key aspect of memoirs, but sometimes I couldn't wait to finish reading the book, assuming she got better, I couldn't wait to finally finish the book as to quell her privileged despair. Besides all this, it was still an entertaining read given that I myself have had harmful-to-those-around-me- swallowing depressive episodes, that if I had Wurtzels writing talent, I would have been just as self indulgent in terms of writing all these calls to allusions and expressions of describing depression. Depression is ugly, and Wurtzel does not shy away from writing her experience in a way that is so ostentatiously "ugly" that it makes you step back and consider how your own handling of depression, as well as being a depressive burden can be seriously obnoxious to others given the burden that is having to undergo reading Wurtzel's personal account. Wurtzel is privileged enough to have attended Harvard, has always had stable housing, (and affording both of these without any full time job) remarkably always having good friends as an accessible shoulder to cry on, and last of my criticisms- the opportunity to travel around not only the U.S, but to Europe. These made for petty annoyances that I had to tell myself before I continued to read the book to try and abstain from judging or feeling like I belonged on some moral high horse. Ironically Wurtzel describes the idea of feeling like she had to prove her depression as if she were the "sickest of them all", which reflects the alienating sensation that is depression, when it becomes so inextricably your identity and you become plunged in a cycle of "Im sick and I cant control it but ill try and chase after a unknown cure which in turn this chase will set out to destroy me"/ "what nourishes me also destroys me".
This book makes me want to contemplate my own perceptions and bias's regarding the nature of the depressed. Some petty annoyances turn into sympathy, on the basis of empathizing that no matter how good I think Wurtzel has it, depression is a destructive mental paradigm that tunnel visions you to only focus on the negative and drown in the banal. I realize everyone and especially those who have felt depressed obsess over excusing and finding root causes of their depression, plunging them in a spiral of overthinking of what ifs and whys, and desperately wishing they could wake up as somebody else to avoid further complicating yourself. Depression is shameful, and it makes you guilty as you start to contemplate the objective good in your life, even if you know you have it good, it doesn't mean you'll start reacting according to it, it wont cure you, because depression is an illness, a sickness of perception and the numbing of interest.
I appreciate that this novel wasn't an attempt or received as aestheticized depression, considering the popularity of My Year of Rest and Relaxation, where I think the main character had few redeeming qualities as the book read as perversely privileged (even if the point of that book was to illustrate an unsavory character, the way it was received and aestheticized online had turned the main character into a icon for depressed wealthy white women, why do we always put their stories first? the glamorous idealization of a beautiful thin sad girl, crying her expensive makeup off as she swallows a handful of pills).
Prozac Nation has its great moments of wit, social and cultural commentary (honestly my favorite parts), poetic devices as to describe the pain and repulse that is depression, and references to great musicians who's careers are also to express feelings of anguish. The book is a worthwhile read, at moments introspective and what I feel would be most valuable to potential readers is that it is relatable in the way of unapologetically expressing a feverish disarray of a mental sickness. if you are into reading "irritating emotional exhibitionism" you will not regret reading this book.
monetlmbo's review against another edition
3.0
I really enjoyed this book. It offered so much detail and insight into the authors personal dealings with depression and left me thinking every time I finished a chapter.
The epilogue also gave me a lot to think about after finishing the book.
I'm going to go watch the movie now.
This review is kind of awful but I recommend reading this book.
The epilogue also gave me a lot to think about after finishing the book.
I'm going to go watch the movie now.
This review is kind of awful but I recommend reading this book.
danakristen82's review against another edition
3.0
I have mixed feelings about this book. I mean, I've never suffered from anything more than mild depression (albeit terrible fight or flight anxiety) so the angle from which I see this memoire is surely different from someone who has suffered from deep depression or, of course, atypical depression. I'm sure this memoire appears a little different in any reader's eyes, since all of our life experiences are unique and depression is a very personal thing.
From what I've gathered from several other reviews on this book, people found Elizabeth to be extremely egocentric. I found this a little absurd - it's her memoire. Of course she's going to dig deep within herself and focus on nothing but herself and exploit that yes, throughout her dark journey, her main concern was herself and her demons. Why are people shocked by this?
I enjoyed Elizabeth's anecdotes, but was not a fan of her definitive expressions of her depression; her comparisons to what it felt like. "My spirit, my emotional being, whatever you want to call all that inner turmoil that has nothing to do with physical existence, were long gone, dead and gone, and only a mass of the most fucking god-awful excruciating pain like a pair of boiling hot tongs clamped tight around my spine and pressing on all my nerves was left in its wake." It was, shockingly enough, depressing. Her descriptions made me feel shitty and brought out some of my anxieties. But, just because I didn't enjoy these parts of the book, it doesn't mean that it's not good writing. It is, actually. It's very good writing if it can affect me that strongly.
I found this book exhausting, however. For someone who comes from a generation where prescribed "crazy pills" or "happy pills" are only a doctor's visit away, it was taxing to read about a depression that could last from the age of 11 to 20-something. I fought my anxiety on my own, without medication, for 3 years before giving in and making an appointment. That was tough. I can't even begin to imagine a 10 year fight against atypical depression. There were many points in this book where I thought, "Holy shit, prescribe something to this woman!" but I had to remind myself of the era in which this all took place. They didn't have all of the options that we have today. I'm not saying that relying on medication is always the answer, but sometimes it is. Stigma against people with depression, anxiety or any mental illnesses is oppressive and alienating. It often prevents people from seeking help, denying access to the support networks and treatment they need to recover. This still being an issue today, I can't even imagine how much worse it must have been a decade or two ago.
From what I've gathered from several other reviews on this book, people found Elizabeth to be extremely egocentric. I found this a little absurd - it's her memoire. Of course she's going to dig deep within herself and focus on nothing but herself and exploit that yes, throughout her dark journey, her main concern was herself and her demons. Why are people shocked by this?
I enjoyed Elizabeth's anecdotes, but was not a fan of her definitive expressions of her depression; her comparisons to what it felt like. "My spirit, my emotional being, whatever you want to call all that inner turmoil that has nothing to do with physical existence, were long gone, dead and gone, and only a mass of the most fucking god-awful excruciating pain like a pair of boiling hot tongs clamped tight around my spine and pressing on all my nerves was left in its wake." It was, shockingly enough, depressing. Her descriptions made me feel shitty and brought out some of my anxieties. But, just because I didn't enjoy these parts of the book, it doesn't mean that it's not good writing. It is, actually. It's very good writing if it can affect me that strongly.
I found this book exhausting, however. For someone who comes from a generation where prescribed "crazy pills" or "happy pills" are only a doctor's visit away, it was taxing to read about a depression that could last from the age of 11 to 20-something. I fought my anxiety on my own, without medication, for 3 years before giving in and making an appointment. That was tough. I can't even begin to imagine a 10 year fight against atypical depression. There were many points in this book where I thought, "Holy shit, prescribe something to this woman!" but I had to remind myself of the era in which this all took place. They didn't have all of the options that we have today. I'm not saying that relying on medication is always the answer, but sometimes it is. Stigma against people with depression, anxiety or any mental illnesses is oppressive and alienating. It often prevents people from seeking help, denying access to the support networks and treatment they need to recover. This still being an issue today, I can't even imagine how much worse it must have been a decade or two ago.
mmadill227's review against another edition
challenging
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
slow-paced
3.0
Content Warnings
Graphic: Drug abuse, Mental illness, Self harm, Suicidal thoughts, and Suicide attempt
Moderate: Alcoholism, Miscarriage, Sexual content, and Abandonment
Minor: Rape, Forced institutionalization, Vomit, and Pregnancy